


One More Miracle

by alexandriakeating



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:44:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1771186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexandriakeating/pseuds/alexandriakeating
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been almost two years since Sherlock's death, and John is being told to move on. As he comes to the realization that Sherlock won't fulfill the one more miracle for him, a surprise meeting shakes him to the core as he gazes into a familiar pair of ice blue eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Delete the Blog

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this about a year and a half ago. Since I've recently gotten an account on here, I've transferred it over. Therefore, this is written as if the 3rd season never happened.

_Move on._

_Delete the blog._

_It's too hard._

_Deleting that blasted blog is too hard._

_That blasted blog has everything._

_That blog will soon be my last connection._

The exhausted, sunken-eyed man ran a hand distractedly over his face, briefly thinking that he should shave soon as his palm was scratch by rough stubble, but that thought was soon thrown from his mind as his depression settled over him again. Closing his eyes against the burning, he leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and resting his head in his hands. Taking a shuttering breath to calm his racing nerves, he pushed himself out of the chair.

Ignoring the painful sights of the flat around him, John sat at the table and flipped his laptop open. Pulling up his blog, he moved the cursor to delete and clicked it. As the message popped up for him to confirm his decision, the cursor hovering over yes, the despondent man's thoughts drifted back to earlier that morning.

* * *

" _It's been almost two years, John. You've come so far as it is. Now, you must take the next step to move on," she said in an even, unfeeling tone._

" _What do you mean?" he choked out._

" _The blog, John. It's holding you back, tying you down to a time that no longer exists. Two years has been plenty of time, and now the time has come for you to remove it from your life."_

" _What the hell is that supposed to mean?" John blurted out in a fury, standing from his chair to hover over the ever statuesque woman. "You want me to forget about him? About what we did? The times we shared?" He looked away as tears began to blur his vision, and his voice refused to make its way around the lump rising in his throat._

" _You want me to delete it? As if he never existed?" he finally managed to strangle out._

" _Now, John, that's not what I meant. You can't forget him: he was your friend. But you_ do _need to be rid of this blog. It's tying you down to that past life; it's preventing you from moving on."_

_Silence filled the room as the patient tried to sort out the tumult of emotions that were surging through him and muddling his thoughts. A light sound broke through the troubled quiet as a pen scrawled across a pad of paper._

" _I expect that blog to be deleted next time you're here, John. If you don't do it now, you will never do it. If you never do it, you can never move on. We're done here for today."_

_A small hand wrapped around his shoulder. "You can do it, John."_

* * *

He couldn't do it. Quickly clicking no, he slammed the laptop shut and leaned back in his chair, letting out a long breath, pinching his eyes shut.

He couldn't do it.

Deleting the blog and moving out of the flat at once.

He couldn't do it.

Discarding everything he had left of his friend at once.

He couldn't do it.

"Dammit," he hissed as moisture began to bud behind his closed eyelids. Rapidly blinking in attempt to dissipate the tears, he stood up, scraping the chair on the floor. His eyes traveled over the half packed flat. It tore him to leave, but without Sherlock he couldn't afford this place. Mrs. Hudson was all too willing to allow him to stay, but he knew the old lady couldn't afford that. She was too caring for her own good sometimes.

Needing to think, he tore out of the room, down the steps and out the door, snatching a coat on his way down and throwing it over his shoulders. The damp, cold air clenched his lungs and cleared his head. Relishing in the brief reprieve from the torment of his emotions, he slipped his arms into the coat and walked down the street.

The tormented man's eyes drifted towards the grey sky. The sun was nowhere in sight behind the thick blanket that the clouds created. A cold breeze tore through the street, and John pulled the high collar of the coat up to protect himself from the biting wind.

_Wait, high collar?_

John's feet froze to the pavement as his eyes fell down to the coat that covered his body, finally taking a good look at what he had grabbed. Instead of his short black jacket, he was cloaked in a long, dingy black coat with a high collar that had irked him so many times before when it was flipped up.

He had grabbed Sherlock's coat.

Shaking himself, he trudged on ahead trying to forget about that fact and push the memory that was starting to force itself into his mind's eye from entering. But that proved to be a futile mission, as he absentmindedly rubbed the rough material between the tips of his fingers.

* * *

_The clean, distant man handed him the large plastic bag. Reluctantly, John reached out and took it, hoping with every fiber of his body that when he touched it he would jolt awake in a cold sweat. He would rub a hand over his face and see Sherlock lounging on his black chair across from him with his legs lazily crossed, his fingers steepled, his brows drawn together, and his lips set in a firm line as he asked, "Did I die in this one?" Or something else that would be remarkable brilliant yet infuriatingly annoying._

_But as his shaking hand grasped the bag, all that happened was the crinkle of the cold plastic weakly echoing the chasm breaking his heart._

_"We informed his brother as well that Mr. Holmes' belongings could be picked up, but he informed us that you would be quite capable of getting them. I hope it was not an inconvenience to—"_

_"No," he choked out shaking his head. "Ah no, it's fine. Just fine."_

_The man gave a curt and continued, unobservant to the flood that was being dammed in the quivering man before him, "We will need clothes desired for his burial within two days, either you or Mr. Holmes can drop those off. The body will be ready by the end of the week for the funeral."_

* * *

John shook his head and picked up the pace, his feet slapping against the ground. However, the harsh sound had considerable lessened, but this fact went unnoticed by the troubled man. Unconsciously, he turned his nose into the collar and took a deep breath. A frown tugged at his lips at the scent.

It wasn't Sherlock.

It was dead.

It was fake.

It wasn't him.

* * *

_The moment he had arrived at the flat, Mrs. Hudson had come to meet him. She stood with him in the doorway has he clenched the bag in his hands. The old woman wrapped her gentle hands around his tense ones and unclenched them, taking the bag from his grasp. She opened it and pulled out his coat and scarf. She then tenderly hung the articles of clothing in their proper place._

_Lovingly stroking the coat, she whispered softly, "There. It'll be like he never left, minus the gunshots, and the fights, and the fridge, oh!" The woman paused as she brought and hand to her mouth, stifling her sob._

_John stood behind her, unable to help comfort her, wallowing in his own misery._

_Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat and waved a hand, dashing tears away. "I'll put some tea on, just this once!" With a last stroke of the coat, she walked to the kitchen mumbling, "I remember it being much softer."_

* * *

His feet stopped in the dying grass in front of the simple, black headstone. Shutting his eyes and pursing his lips, John tried to prevent the flood of emotions that were renewed in him.  _Damn feet!_ Why was he here? He needed to move on from this man, not keep him in his life.

For several moments, he just stood there breathing in deeply, trying to calm the raging thoughts inside his mind. Finally, he opened his eyes and stared at the taunting black marker.

"Sherlock Holmes," he whispered softly.

Clearing his throat he looked away and stuffed his hands into the coat's pockets. "I, uh, I guess this is it. You—," John's voice crack and he cleared his throat again, "you failed on that miracle."

The man sighed and looked up, hoping that the flowing tears would flow back into his eyes. "I'm being told to move on, to delete the blog." John's lips curved into a humorless smile as he continued, "You'd be happy about that; you never really cared for the blog all that much."

John became aware of soft footsteps behind him, but chose to ignore them. They were most likely someone he didn't know here to say good-bye to a loved one. And if he did know them, well, they should know to leave him alone.

"So," the man took a deep breath, preparing himself to say two words he never wanted to say to his friend, "good-bye, Sherlock."

John heard a sharp intake of breath. "Ooh, really John? And just when I was coming to say hello."

His breath caught in his throat, as he peered over his shoulder, his eyes widening as they met a familiar pair of ice blue ones.

 


	2. Friends Don't Abandon Each Other

John rapidly blinked as he tried to take in the tall, slender form standing in front of him. He brought hand up to his face and rubbed it across his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Taking a couple deep breaths to calm his racing heart, he shut his eyes to the world around him.

"Delete the blog, John? You love that thing. I was actually quite depressed when I discovered you were failing to update it," a cool, even voice that he knew so well spoke.

_This isn't real. Pull yourself together. This isn't real._ John shook his head to dislodge the voice that he had so desperately wanted to hear. Hesitantly opening his eyes, he once again found himself gazing into a pair of ice blue eyes.

His eyes.

No.

A small crease furrowed the plain between the man's dark eyebrows. He slightly cocked his head as he looked at John and whispered, "John? John, are you alright?"

"Sh—," John tried to reply, but found he couldn't squeeze any sound past the lump in his throat. "Sher—," John turned away from the familiar form of the man across from him and brought a hand to his mouth, rubbing his jaw. Mustering up the last of his strength, he turned back to the dark, curled hair man and pointed a finger at him. "You're—you're dead," he accused.

"John," the man berated him. "I'm standing in front of you, am I not? Please, explain to me how—with this evidence present—you could deduce that I am dead?"

"No. Just no," John choked out. "You—fell. You fell. I watched you fall." He clutched his head between his hands and doubled over, crouching back on his heels.

"John?" his former friend's voice took on a soft tone.

"No," John insisted, burying his face in his hands, willing the tears to stop but his efforts were futile. Salty wetness burned trails down his scruff covered cheeks.

A long fingered hand wrapped around his shoulder. "John," his quiet voice urged, "I assure you that I'm very much alive." The twin of the long-fingered hand grasped his other shoulder and shook him gently. "John?" he pleaded.

No.

_It's not—_

_It can't be—_

_I saw—_

_I saw him—_

_Jump._

_He jumped._

Fury welled up in John as he shoved the hands of his former friend from his shoulders and tossed them back at him. "You jumped!" John scrambled to his feet and brushed the coat off with quick, angry movements. "You bloody jumped and left me, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly—you left all of us Sherlock! And you've been God knows where for almost two years and  _now_  you decide to come back?" John laughed darkly.

"Listen to me," his former friend began.

John held up his hands, stopping any excuse that the man could possible execute with his usual fluency and eloquence. "Stop. Just stop. I'm done. You come back here after all this and act as if nothing has happened? I thought you were  _dead_ , Sherlock.  _Dead_. As in gone, never coming back, irrevocable out of my life with no chance of returning."

The slender man's eyes took on a steely glint. "I'm your friend John. I thought you would—,"

"What?" John demanded. "Understand you? Forgive you? No questions asked, right? Because that's what friends do. Well, guess what, Sherlock, friends don't abandon each other. And you did a pretty good job at doing that."

Unable to stand the tempest that raged within his heart and mind, the weary doctor stalked away from the grave and the man he had once believed to be his friend. As he pulled the coat tighter around his body, another thought struck him. He turned on his heel and faced the lone figure, cloaked in a dark knee-length coat with a worn, dark blue scarf expertly wrapped around his pale neck.

"And another thing," John called out over the wind that was beginning to pick up, driving the thunderclouds overhead closer together, "what's with the coat and scarf? They're not even yours are they?"

"I had to make it seem real, John," his voice weakly floated through the wind to him.

John ripped the coat off his limbs and flung it on the ground. "It was all lies, Sherlock! How can you expect there to still be a friendship between us when you did this! You know what else, Sherlock? You know why Mycroft didn't come get your things and why I did? Why I was the one who arranged everything? Why I was the one who stayed at your grave the longest to make sure your final resting place was suitable?"

"Why, John?"

"Because he couldn't handle it! I don't care about whatever blasted feud the two of you have going on, but you're brothers and he was destroyed! He might not say anything, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything because he somehow blamed himself! He didn't want to ruin anything else for you. But we were different there! I  _did_  everything because I blamed myself! And now I see you standing there, as if nothing happened, and guess what Sherlock, I'm pissed! I lasted most of my life without you, I lasted these past couple years without you, I can last the rest of my life without you!"

"John," the lithe man began taking slow steps towards him, "you need to calm down. You're not thinking clearly at this moment."

A light rain began to patter on the ground and bounce of the two men's shoulders, nature's attempt to cool the fervent anger that was building between the two figures. However, her well-intended actions failed to aid.

"On the contrary, Sherlock," John retorted, "I've never thought more clearly than right now. Good-bye, Sherlock. And don't think, don't even think about coming back this time."

And with those last words, he turned and began the walk back to the flat, he's feet sloshing against the damp grass.

After a moment, he felt something heavy drape across his shoulders. He looked over to see his former friend placing his coat over his shoulders. Catching his eye, his thin lips rose up ever so slightly as he stated, "You'll get ill if you walk in this weather without a coat. I'd imagine as a doctor you would know that."

John stared at the tall man beside him. His dark curls were plastered to his high forehead; the stark color contrast making him appear that much paler. The doctor shrugged the coat off his shoulders and tossed it back to the man besides him. "I don't need your pity or your charity, Sherlock. It's your coat. Besides, if you don't wear, you'll get a bloody cold."

"Nonsense. Such a trifling thing wouldn't bother me."

John unwittingly let out a gruff laugh as he trudged through the wet street with Sherlock close behind.

* * *

"John, are you moving out?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because, Sherlock," John exclaimed exasperatedly, "I can't afford this place on my own. I found a small, cheap flat a few blocks down from the hospital. I'm moving in in two days."

Sherlock cocked his head, his brows scrunched in thought. "Why would you be paying on your own? I'm back. There's no reason for you to leave." With a few long strides, he reached his black, leather chair and collapsed onto it. He gestured lazily to the boxes stacked on the floor in various states of being packed, "You can put everything back to how it was." Letting out a sigh, he rested his head back on the cushion, shutting his eyes.

"Sherlock, I told you I'm moving out."

His former flat-mate's lips formed a thin line as he said, "No you're not. You said you were moving because you couldn't afford the flat on your own. You're no longer alone; therefore, you have no more reason to move out. In conclusion, you can unpack."

"If you think that I'm going to share this flat with you after everything you've put me through, you must have really cracked your head."

Ice blue eyes glared at him as a note of irritation crept into Sherlock's voice, "I'm afraid I don't understand why."

John let out a short laugh. "That's rich, Sherlock. You don't need to understand why; you just need to understand that I'm moving out. Have fun talking to your skull."

The emotionally drained man turned from the man who he had once shared so much with and headed to his room. He didn't turn as he heard footsteps behind him or his name being earnestly called. He stepped into his room and shut the door behind him, quickly locking it.

As John slumped onto his bed, a loud bang rattled the door.

"John. John open this door."

"Sherlock, go away. You're not changing my mind."

"John, I—"

A stifled scream rang through the flat before Sherlock could finish. John leapt to his feet and ran to the door. Unlocking it, he threw it open and ran into Sherlock's damp back. Letting a string of curses, he pushed around Sherlock to see Mrs. Hudson standing in front of him, one hand covering her agape mouth, her other clutching her heart. Her bright eyes were rimmed with tears.

John gave a weary sigh and took a step towards his landlady. "Mrs. Hudson," he began, but she pushed past him. He looked over his shoulder to see her stop in front of Sherlock. She stood there a moment before removing her hand from her mouth and slapping Sherlock's arm.

"Blast it, Sherlock, don't do that again. You almost gave me a heart attack."

Sherlock smirked down to his landlady and said, "Do forgive me, Mrs. Hudson."

The old lady let out another cry and wrapped her arms around Sherlock's waist. He in turn bent down and wrapped his arms around her thin frame.

"Oh God knows who much I missed you!" the landlady declared.

"And I, you," Sherlock replied evenly. He looked over her shoulder to John with fragile eyes.

John steeled himself and looked away. He might have to move out earlier than planned.

 


	3. Nice Having Him Back

John stared at the awkward form of Sherlock leaning against his desk, examining his flat. His long legs were lazily crossed in front of him and his arms were casually slung over his lower stomach. He watched as Sherlock's bright eyes flitted about the flat, absorbing every detail faster than John could acknowledge an object's existence.

The doctor's own observation was cut short as the lithe man across from him let out a short breath. He sucked in his cheeks ever so slightly before stating, "Simple. Basic. Quaint. Just like you, John."

"Simple? Basic?  _Quaint?_ " John repeated incredulously.

He rolled his crystal ices and retorted, "You know what I meant. I said that with the sincerest of sentiments, John."

John huffed and crossed his arms, burying himself deeper into his chair. As a prickly silence blanketed the two, the former soldier's mind drifted back to Mrs. Hudson's phone call earlier in the day.

* * *

" _He's miserable, John. The bloody gunshots. The holes in my walls. Have pity on my poor walls and speak with him, please!" her near hysterical voice came through the phone._

" _We have nothing to say to each other."_

" _Oh rubbish! I'm sending him over there, and you two work this all out. Come to an agreement. Beat each other up. I don't care! But you boys will become friends again, and you will move back in! It doesn't feel right being any different."_

" _Mrs. Hudson, look I—"_

" _No. I won't hear any of it. The moment I can drag him off that couch and into some presentable clothing, he'll be on his way over."_

_John snorted unintentionally. "That could take a while. I don't envy you that job."_

_The woman on the other end of the line let out an amused sigh before a moment of silence fell between to two._

* * *

And here the man was. The man he had thought dead these past two years. The friend he had thought he lost. The man he had owed so much to.

Sherlock.

He was living, breathing, and right in front of him. John was at odds with how he should feel. For one, he was definitely pissed at him. He had abandoned him. There was no way to look at this situation and believe that he hadn't.

But, he was back.

Sherlock was back and he was alive.

He had always believed, but doubt was a tricky pest to eradicate.

"Mrs. Hudson is under the impression that an agreement can be reached between the two of us," Sherlock began as his eyes lingered outside a small window to his left.

"Well, I don't see how that is possible, Sherlock."

His former friend's lips stretched into a thin line as he pushed himself off the desk and stalked towards the window. As his eyes surveyed the people passing below, his long fingers absentmindedly fiddled with the top button of his suit coat.

"How so?" came his soft voice.

"For God's sakes, Sherlock, you abandoned everyone, you abandoned me!" John exclaimed as he pushed himself out of his chair.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh as he rolled his head back to glare at John. "Are you still quoting such a pathetic argument, John?"

"It's not very pathetic seeing as it's true," John scoffed in return. "Not only that, but you," he accused pointing a finger at this friend from so long ago, "hardly came here out of your own free will. Mrs. Hudson practically pushed you into my flat! You've been back for almost three months now and you've made no effort but expect me to understand. God's sake, Sherlock, I'm not you! I can't just deduce everything that has happened these past two years."

"On the contrary," Sherlock stated as he brushed past John, "I never anticipated such a straightforward mind to know what happened or to fully understand for that matter."

The doctor turned to follow the tall figure's pin straight retreating form. It stopped at the door and a slender hand reached for the door knob. Bright eyes flashed behind dark hair as Sherlock looked over his shoulder to John.

"I know that time is something needed in a situation such as this, and I will continue to be patient. But John, patience isn't a strength of mine; you should know that all too well."

John gave a gruff laugh and the corner of his friend's mouth quirk upwards for a spare second.

"And John, I was counting on the straightforwardness, that simple mind. I was hoping for it to at least accept and put effort into understand, to at least see that I did this with everyone in mind, with you in mind. Good-bye, John."

Those words struck at John's heart once again as the door closed between the two. Delaying the pain, he rushed to the door and locked it. He pressed his back against the hard wood and took a shaky breath. His knees trembled violently before he felt his body pitch downwards. Grasping the smooth surface of the door with weak fingers, he managed to simply collapse on his knees.

_Good-bye, John._

_Good-bye,_

_John._

Those bloody words. They were worse a second time. Burning hot tears streamed down John's cheeks and dripped off his chin.

_I was counting on that simple mind._

_I was hoping for it to accept…_

_To at least see that I did this with everyone in mind,_

_With you in mind._

Sobs shook his frame and several minutes passed before they were abated. The drained man pulled himself off the floor and shuffled to his bed in the corner with the last of his energy. As he collapsed onto the bed, he shut his eyes to the world and tried to close his heart to the pain. Slowly, he fell into a fitful sleep. Warbled and dark images floated through his dreams.

A lone figure with a billowing coat.

Flailing arms attempting to fly.

Precious life's blood spilt on the pavement.

Pain.

Heartache.

Brokenness.

As John fell deeper into despair, he lashed out, his fingers searching for something to grasp on to, something to hold on to, something to ground him.

A cool hand wrapped long fingers around his wrists and pulled gently upwards. John felt himself ascending out of his personal darkness thanks to this guardian angel. As he rose above his despair, he turned to steal a look at the being that saved him. His eyes fell upon  _his_  face with  _that_  look.

The man jolted awake in a cold sweat, his heart hammering as he gazed upon his dark and empty flat. As reality slowly fell upon him, his shoulders slumped with a heavy weight that was rivaled only by that which was on his heart.

He had to see Sherlock.

John swung his legs off the bed and rested them on the rough carpet. His bleary eyes landed on the digital clock and the red numbers blaring 2:34. He sighed and fell back against the pillow and stuffed his feet under the sheets.

In the morning.

* * *

John's hand hesitantly hovered above the doorknob to 221B Baker Street. Taking a deep breath and with a brief glance skyward, he grasped hold of the cold metal and gently twisted it. He silently slid the door open and shut it behind him. With soft treads, he made his way up the stairs. As he lurked in the doorway to the living room, he spied Sherlock sitting in his chair.

The consulting detective slouched into the cushions, his legs extended in front of him. One blue robed covered arm dangled uselessly over the arm of the chair, his violin bow loosely grasped in slack fingers. His other arm had its long fingered hand wrapped around the neck of his violin that sat perched on his pajama clad hip. Sherlock's hair was more unkempt and unruly than its usual mess. Stray, dark curls flew off in an odd halo around his head. His thin lips were set in a childlike frown. His pale skin had a clammy complexion which was worsened by a white shirt and dark lines that shadowed his eyes.

His eyes.

_Oh God._

Sherlock's bright eyes were dead, devoid of life and passion as he stared straight ahead at the wall.

A piercing twang struck the flat as one of the lithe man's long fingers harshly plucked a string on the violin halfheartedly.

John's heart sank as he observed the pain on his friend's face. He might not have Sherlock's deductive skills, but he could see the pain that enveloped his heart. He knew that pain all too well; it was exactly what he had been feeling these past years. As John gazed on for several more minutes, he forgot what he had been so angry about. Sherlock knew what he was doing; he had a reason. He always had a reason. He always knew what was going on.

John understood.

As his friend continued sitting in pain, his heart couldn't take it any longer. He took the last step into the room and leaned against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets.

"Bored?" he asked casually.

Ice eyes briefly flickered to his face before returning to the wall. He remained silent but deepened his childlike pout.

John sighed. "I guess I'm going to have to get used to this again, two years without it can throw a person off."

"Why might you need did readapted yourself?" came the curt question.

"Well," John said as his eyes roamed the flat, "it would appear Mrs. Hudson took your skull again. I'd think you'd need someone to talk to."

Sherlock's eyes flashed towards his face, searching and fragile. "You're moving back?" he asked tentatively.

John nodded.

The despondent man jumped to life as he left his violin and bow forgotten on the flat floor and quickly closed the space between him and the doctor. Before John had time to protest, long arms wrapped around his shoulders and he was pulled into Sherlock's chest. After a moment, John's arms returned the gesture as he took a deep breath.

Sherlock smelled like himself.

He smelled alive.

He smelled like home.

"I missed you, John," Sherlock's warm breath tickled his ear.

"Yeah, me too," he replied gruffly.

Suddenly, John cleared his throat and said, "People will definitely talk now."

Sherlock sighed and pulled away. He glanced over the man in front of him and stated, "You can move your things now. As soon as possible would be preferable."

John's eyebrows pulled together as he questioned, "Do you really expect me to do that all on my own?"

"You did when you left; I'd trust you can do it again coming back," he replied waving a hand in dismissal as he walked to the couch.

The doctor shook his head with a small smile dancing on his lips as he slumped into his chair, allowing his limbs to relax for the first time in so many months as he watched his dear friend jump onto the couch and stretch out his longs limbs. His dark haired friend tossed a robe covered arm over his eyes and let out a deep breath. The two sat in companionable silence for some time, content to simply acknowledge the other's existence.

John was the first to toss off the silence. "Sherlock?"

"What, John?" his friend mumbled through thin lips.

John swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck before asking, "How did you do it?"

The man watched as the corner of his friend's lips pulled back ever so slightly as he explained simply, "It's elementary." With that he pulled the blue robe tighter around his body, and curled into a ball facing the back out the couch.

John let out an exasperated chuckle.  _God,_  he thought,  _it's nice having him back._

  


 


End file.
